The Quality of the Informant cc-3 Read online

  "Can we just have a drink? For old times' sake, shall we say?"

  She tossed the brush down and faced him. "The only 'old times' I remember was when I took chances for you and ended up going to the fuckin' joint. You better get out of here before my boyfriend gets back. He can press three hundred pounds."

  "Your cut in this new thing would be twenty-five C's. I can prove it to you on paper."

  "You are not part of my life anymore," she said. "I'm not into being a mule or a slave for any man. I'm tired of being used. I'm looking out for myself. You knew I was down here and you never so much as looked me up to say hello. Now you need me for a thing and you want to buy me a drink."

  "I tried to bail you out."

  "And I'm sure you tried to send me flowers, too," she said. "There's no need for bullshit. We did our thing and now it's over. I don't need you anymore. I do enough coke and smack deals to keep me in clothes and motels. I'm not greedy. I put everything together myself. No moneymen, no partners, no getting busted for somebody else. I'm my own person, and that's the way I like it. I don't want to work for you or anybody else. I did a lot of thinking when I was in Terminal Island. I look at life a lot more realistically now. I'm no longer your average dumb farm girl."

  "As a matter of fact, you're the most intelligent woman I've ever met," LaMonica said. His gaze was dead serious.

  "Yeah, well my brains didn't keep me from getting busted for you and going to the joint."

  "All I ask is one drink. If you want to talk I'll be down in the bar." He walked out the door and closed it behind him.

  The bar was a spacious, well-lit place with wicker chairs and decorative tiles on the walls and floors. Paul LaMonica sat at a table and sipped a drink. He kept looking out the window toward Sandy's room. Except for a couple of fishermen at the bar exchanging jokes with the bartender, he was alone in the place.

  Twenty minutes later Sandy strutted in and LaMonica took a deep breath. The fishermen elbowed one another as she shouted, "Cuba libre, no ice," to the bartender and sat down at LaMonica's table. "I don't like people sneaking up on me," she said.

  "Neither do I."

  Sandy Hartzbecker dug a filter tip out of her purse and flamed it with a gold lighter. She sucked smoke. "So many people have gotten busted down here in the last few weeks that I've become paranoid," she said. "And I'm not talking about getting taken down behind a few spoons of coke or a brick of weed. I'm talking about the other night when the federales stormed into Teddy's and dragged some dude right out the door. They drove him straight to the border and shoved him across the white line to a carload of FBI agents. He was good for some bank jobs in San Francisco. But how did they know he was sitting there in Teddy's? It's scary. Really fuckin' scary." The bartender set a drink down in front of her and walked away. She poked the ice with her finger.

  "The simple explanation," LaMonica said, "is that someone who hangs around Teddy's is a snitch."

  "There was a time when it seemed like you could trust everyone there," Sandy said. She used the straw.

  "Trust everyone at Teddy's?" LaMonica laughed.

  Her face reddened. She pointed a finger at his face. "Look, you sonofabitch, I don't have to take any shit from you. The last time we did something together I'm the one who ended up holding the bag, and to this day I'm not even sure what happened. You told me that the pit boss was wired. Just drop the phony fifties on the pass line,' you said.

  And without so much as asking you a question, I did just that. He was wired all right! The next thing I know the whole Las Vegas Police Department is dragging me away. Did you know that out of the corner of my eye I saw you sneaking off toward the slot machines? The feds offered to let me go if I would tell them who gave me the counterfeit money. But I kept my mouth shut. I protected you. And did I ask you for any help when they sent me to the penitentiary? No. I escaped on my own, without one bit of help from anyone. And I'll tell you this, I'm a much stronger person for the experience." She took a deep drag on her cigarette.

  "I've never forgotten that you stood up for me, that you didn't hand me up to the feds," LaMonica said. "You might say that I want to make it up to you with this new caper.

  "Bullshit," she said. Tears welled in her eyes. It occurred to LaMonica that he had never seen her cry.

  "I know a lot of women who would love to take a shot at twenty-five grand," LaMonica said.

  "Hundreds of women would jump at a chance to make twenty-five bucks, much less twenty-five grand. But you and I know that's not the goddamn point. You want me because you know I won't snitch on you if I get caught. You know I've stood the test of fire."

  "In certain ways that's true."

  "You are the most selfish person I have ever known,

  Sandy said. "Everything revolves around you. It's what turned me off about you. I can't believe we spent almost a year together." She shook her head.

  "In this new thing you wouldn't even have to cross the border," LaMonica said.

  The bartender brought another drink. He set it down.

  "The answer is still no."

  LaMonica was silent for a moment. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the counterfeit passport. He opened it and showed Sandy her photograph. Her eyes lit up. He shoved it back in his pocket.

  "The passport would be your bonus," he said.

  Sandy Hartzbecker looked out the window for a while. "You actually like to fuck with a person's mind, don't you? You know I want to go back home. I'd be safe. The Germans would never extradite one of their own citizens."

  "A few simple meetings on this side of the border is all I'm asking," he said.

  "Meetings with who?"

  "With a turkey, a square who won't know who you are. You will play a part. You'll be in on the whole thing with me, so you'll be able to see exactly how much money is involved. I intend to split fifty-fifty with you, and you'll be right in the middle with me to see that there's no back-stabbing, no rip-offs. We would be partners."

  The fishermen laughed hysterically about something and ordered more tequila.

  Sandy Hartzbecker sipped her drink and set the glass down. She lit a cigarette and puffed twice. Smoke floated from her mouth. "Will you repeat what you've promised me in front of my boyfriend?" Her lips were pursed in a determined manner.

  "Sure," LaMonica said sarcastically, "and then maybe we should drive down to Teddy's and announce our business to every American thief and dope pusher in Baja. Let's let the whole world in on it. What the hell."

  "You don't have to tell him what it's about, and I won't either. I swear. But I want you to make the commitment in front of him." She lowered her voice. "If I don't get my cut when it's over, then he'll come for you. He'll be my insurance."

  "Maybe we should get a lawyer to draw up a contract?" LaMonica said with a sneer. "Can your nigger read?"

  "You are a bigoted chauvinist pig," she said, her voice cracking. "Mr. Cool is more of a together person than you ever could be. It was a black man not a white man who married me and brought me to the U.S. I would still be serving beer to G.I.s for four marks an hour if it hadn't been for him. He was a dope fiend, but he treated me better than any white man ever has — including you."

  LaMonica stood up. "I'll be at Teddy's tonight," he said. "If you want in, meet me there. You can bring your boyfriend." He walked out the door wondering whether he should have played it a little softer.

  Chapter 11

  Lamonica had been in Teddy's for over an hour, sitting at a corner table sipping beer. Teddy flitted from table to table with his tequila bottle and lemon. Sandy came in the door followed by her boyfriend. Mr. Cool wore a form-fitting T-shirt the same color as his skin. His biceps were puffed, veiny. Sandy pointed and he strolled to LaMonica's table. Unsmiling, the black man sat down. He had boozy, red-rimmed eyes and a moon-shaped scar on his cheek. Looking self-conscious, Sandy walked past them to the bar.

  LaMonica stared at the weightlifter with a blank expression. "I'm offering Sandy a pi
ece of a thing I have under way. Her part will be a few simple meetings. I'm promising her twenty-five grand when it's over." He sipped his drink.

  The black man made a half smile. "Is this a paper thing?"

  "I guess you could say that," LaMonica said.

  "Just what kind of paper do we be talking about?" Mr. Cool folded his arms and leaned forward on the cocktail table. The table tilted.

  LaMonica sat back as if the man across from him were diseased. "High-quality paper."

  "Then we be talking about funny money," Mr. Cool said. "Is that what we be talking about?"

  LaMonica sipped his drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What part don't you understand, brother?"

  "Just exactly what the fuck do the lady have to do, man?" Mr. Cool said. "Some things people have to do are worth more money than other things people have to do."

  "If the lady decides she wants in, then she will do exactly what the fuck I tell her to do," LaMonica said. "That's what she has to do."

  "You didn't answer the muthafuckin' question."

  "Why don't you give it to me again?"

  "Man, why don't you quit the shuckin' and jivin' and get down to talkin' some business? The lady asked me to check things out and make sure it all goes right for her, that she ain't going to get ripped off. If I don't give her the go-ahead, then she for damn sure ain'tgonna join your little party. Do you see where I'm comin' from?"

  "Like I said, her part will be a couple of meetings with a sucker," LaMonica said. "She plays a part. We score and split fifty thousand. This is a guarantee."

  "In other words, the lady have to show her face. And if she have to be showing her face, then she's right out there on Front Street when the pigs come around with their pictures," he said. He lit a menthol cigarette.

  LaMonica looked the man in the eye. He said nothing.

  "You'll have to deal with me if she don't get what's comin' to her," the black man said.

  "She'll get it," LaMonica said. "But it won't be because I'm afraid of you, nigger."

  Mr. Cool stared at LaMonica for a moment. Then he got up and went to the bar. He and Sandy whispered. Sandy came back to the table and said, "Okay, when and where?" There were tears in her eyes.

  "I'll pick you up at your motel day after tomorrow," LaMonica said. "Pack a bag."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Up to Tijuana."

  During the twenty-minute ride from the airport the cabdriver drawled on about how much Houston had grown and LaMonica acted as if he were interested. He pulled up in front of a gunmetal-gray building with letters over a bank of glass doors that spelled "National Headquarters Travelers Chex Incorporated." LaMonica paid the taxi fare, including tip, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He checked every pocket in his clothing as a final security measure, making sure he carried no identification with his real name. He strode into the building.

  The reception area was decorated with a Texas state flag, travel photos, and a blowup of a purplish traveler's check. The receptionist, a young Mexican woman with dark lips and eyes, was courteous. He told her he wanted to talk to the director of security. She made a brief phone call and showed him into an office decorated with police paraphernalia: insignia patches, inscribed billy-clubs.

  The fat man behind the desk stood up and shook hands. It was hard to tell his age. He had smooth pink cheeks that probably didn't require more than a once-a-week shave. His hair was black and looked as if it had been pasted onto his head in little greasy gobs. He wore a clip-on necktie. "Omar T. Lockhart," he boomed. "I'm the director of security."

  LaMonica introduced himself as Roger Brown and handed the man a business card. Lockhart motioned him to a chair. He read the business card out loud: "International Investigative Service."

  "Most of my clients are corporations," LaMonica said.

  "I see. And what can I do for you?" Lockhart made a little pointless laugh.

  "I am a private investigator," LaMonica said. "I represent a client who wants to provide information concerning the counterfeiting of your company's traveler's checks. My client demands anonymity, and I have given her my personal and professional assurances that her identity will be protected. Frankly, she fears for her life."

  Omar T. Lockhart slid forward in his chair. He took off his glasses and held them up to the light. "In other words, she wants to be paid a reward for her information," he said, putting the glasses back on. He flexed his eyebrows a few times and coughed without putting a hand over his mouth. "And just how will you be paid?"

  LaMonica gave a puzzled look. "My fee?" he said.

  "Yes," Lockhart said, "that is what I'm asking you."

  "I'm working on a percentage of the recovery fee plus expenses. That should be no secret."

  Lockhart nodded knowingly. He looked out the window.

  "I'll get to the point," LaMonica said. "My client has knowledge of a stash of one million dollars in traveler's checks. They're five-hundred-dollar-denomination checks."

  Lockhart turned to LaMonica. "Do you have a sample?"

  LaMonica pulled a business-sized envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Lockhart. Lockhart removed the check from the envelope and examined it carefully before putting it back in the envelope.

  "And just what do we have to do to get our hands on these checks?" Lockhart said.

  "I'll have to convince my client that it's worth the risk."

  Lockhart nodded. "I understand."

  "She is a very street-wise lady," LaMonica said. "She knows full well that traveler's-check companies bear the full dollar loss on counterfeit checks that are passed. She wants ten percent of the dollar amount of the recovery.

  Lockhart laughed. "Just a hundred thousand dollars?" he said. "No way we are going to pay any such reward, my good man. No way."

  "I'm just relaying what she's told me. I'm only a middle-man." LaMonica stood up and stretched. He went to the window. The view was of a sprawling business area mixing into suburbs; a town of fast-buck artists, chance takers, oil thieves. "I know you'll want to discuss this with your superiors," he said. "Perhaps we could meet again tomorrow?"

  Lockhart looked puzzled. He nodded.

  "If you do decide to deal with my client, I would insist that you make no contact with the police or FBI until the investigation is in its final stages," LaMonica said. "Police agencies have a tendency to move too quickly and could compromise my client."

  "Of course those decisions are ours alone to make," Lockhart said.

  LaMonica turned to the security man. "Speaking as a professional private investigator, I'm telling you that my client will not work with the police. Period. I don't intend to waste my time and have the case blown before we are able to locate and recover the counterfeit checks-all of them. There will be plenty of time for the police to make arrests once the investigation is at the proper stage."

  "That sounds fair enough," Lockhart said.

  The men shook hands and Paul LaMonica walked out the door. Lockhart returned to his desk. After staring at Brown's business card for a few seconds, he dialed the Los Angeles telephone number on it.

  A woman answered. "International Investigative Service."

  "Mr. Roger Brown, please," he said.

  "I'm sorry. Mr. Brown is out of town for a few days. May I tell him who called?"

  "I'd prefer to just give him a call in a few days. I have some work for him. Uh, I take it your firm does handle corporate work?"

  "Yes," the woman said. "This firm handles private investigations and industrial security work for major corporations. May I take your name and address?"

  Lockhart set the receiver down.

  The conference room was decorated with a set of Texas longhorns and a color photograph of John Wayne standing in front of the Alamo. He was holding up a book of traveler's checks.

  Omar T. Lockhart sat in a seat at the end of the mahogany table next to the vice-president for personnel. The table was filled with men wearing dark suits. He had s
tood up and given his briefing, using as much police jargon as possible. By the time the questions started, there was a definite air of urgency in the room and Lockhart knew full well that he had created it.

  "Who is this 'private eye'?" said the gray-haired man at the opposite end of the table. His expression was grim, perhaps a requirement for a chairman of the board.

  "I've checked him out, Mr. Stallworth. He's an independent from Los Angeles. He does corporate work mostly."

  The eyes at the table went from one man to another like a crowd at a tennis match.

  "Just how good are these counterfeit checks?" Stallworth said.

  "Excellent quality," Lockhart said. He removed a check from a folder and held it up. "Easy to pass," he added, realizing that his usual board-room butterflies had almost gone away. Everyone was looking at the check.

  Stallworth spoke. "How many of these have actually been passed?"

  "Just a few in Ensenada, Mexico, a couple of days ago. They were passed in a bar," Lockhart said. "They've just started to pop up. For once we're right on top of the operation. We have a chance of recovering the checks before they get into heavy circulation."

  "Get him down to some reasonable figure," Stallworth said. "We'll pay, but we're not going to pay full fare."

  "And the police?" Lockhart said.

  "The private investigator is probably right in that regard," Stallworth said. "If we bring in the police or the FBI at this point, they will take control. Naturally, they'll be more interested in arresting crooks than recovering the counterfeit checks before we end up eating a million-dollar loss. For the time being let's keep the police out of it." Stallworth looked at his watch. "I want you to report to me every day on this matter."

  "Yes, sir," Lockhart said.

  Stallworth pushed his chair back. Everyone stood up. The chairman of the board left the room.

  Omar T. Lockhart felt perspiration trickle down the middle of his back.

  Chapter 12

  Carr and Kelly sat in a sedan across the street from the Castaways Lounge. The tavern was sandwiched between a porno shop with a cloth hanging over its front door and a storefront telephone answering service that Carr knew was used as a contact point for whores and pimps. Over the front entrance to the bar was a sign that read "No T-shirts or Bare Feet."